Staticity
by awesomesen
Summary: He doesn't understand that you are crazy for him, crazy for them, blazing for him and them and it, fiery and smoky and salty from the crack of lightning... [RIKKUxGIPPAL, pre X2 post X, trippy angst]


* * *

STATICITY

* * *

You take him to the temple and he laughs at you for it, laughs and pulls a braid and asks you what he looks like, a Yevonite? And he looks a little by both of them but you don't say so since it is an accident; they look like _him _because he came first and the lightning crackles in the sunlit windows. And he calls you crazy for it.

He doesn't understand that you are crazy for him; crazy for them; blazing for him and them and it, fiery and smoky and salty from the crack of lightning. Thunder doesn't scare you now because you are made of electric lights, so you kiss him there in the temple and laugh at the summoners watching.

Crazy girl, he calls you, and you laugh in his smile. You remember what Berserk feels like and this is it but worse, this is a drunken dizzy lightning storm, this is the wrong kind of grief and Djose temple is the worst of them all. And you are still kissing him, because they look like he does and you loved them and love him. Just the other day you held Yuna while she cried and told her to keep crying until she was done, said keep crying until she could smile again, said there was no shame in it, and you wonder what she thinks about you bringing your boyfriend to a temple for fucking.

You stop kissing him and he stares at you back, he has one eye and blond hair and is the best you can do, even though you've known him for years and knew them for months. You should feel guilty but don't, instead you feel drunk and this is the wrong kind of grief you say hoarsely, the worst kind of all.

But he's using you, too, so he just kisses you again, and more then just that until you break it off again and twirl away, buck naked in Yevon's temple, no one to chase you away this time so you spread your arms like Yuna casting Holy and bow to the statues, Yunalesca who you killed, and there's nothing to be afraid of when you're dead. Ixion was always your favorite of them, your frightening electric babe, and when Yuna called on the Aeons the last time you struck him down yourself and tied a gem of lightning to a thread around your neck in easy-mourning, because sometimes grief is simple and sometimes you are not in love.

And he laughs from behind you and calls you crazy again, arms finding a way around you, solid and warm and bare. You laugh with him, against him, because delirium is the best sort of mourning and sometimes you need to get off of Besaid and into a temple, away from Yuna's crying and the obnoxious happiness of Wakka and Lulu, too much at once on both fronts, too much that leaves you in tears from smiling at the end of the day.

At night he says their names in his sleep and you listen to them, imagining from the sound the sort of people they represent. When you ask him he grows tense and changes the subject, his hand flying to the scar on his collarbone and answering all your questions. He is in mourning, too.

Until we're better again, you had agreed at the start of it, because you hate being like this and it had taken only one glance to realize he was exactly the same. You had agreed to grieve together, in secret, until you didn't need grieving anymore, until you could smile and tell Yuna everything was okay and mean it. That was your promise, that was his promise, and even though you feel like you could just about die you will keep it, and he can smile and joke and looks a little like both of them and that's okay too.

So you kiss him once more, his neck this time, and you imagine priests and monks and Shelinda staring as you laugh, the marble of the floor cold but manageable, you've climbed Gagazet and can handle a cold butt if you must, cold butt and legs and back, you wish the priests had thought to leave a cot or two behind but the temples are bare but for the statues that stare down and watch you break several of Yevon's teachings on the temple floor, and regardless of anything you think they are creepy, creepy, Braska is your uncle you realize suddenly and almost laugh again.

You are hysterical. He looks at you with his eyebrow raised and half a smile, kisses your ear and tells you that you have a knack for ruining the mood. You can't help but agree. You knew him first, ever since you were kids, youngest and second-youngest members of your desert band, he was the best goddamn shot and you were the best goddamn thief, and holding hands was the biggest deal there was and the sun shone gold all day.

Promises lasted forever then, and kisses were shy brushings on the cheek, and you loved him then more then anything else in the world, loved him until the sun went down and the moon rose and the whole world became bright and cold with the stars. That was your purity.

The second one had hair like his but worse, feathery flyaway yellow like some sort of dyed chocobo, but his eyes were like the sky and bright, two black spots for pupils, and they were so much alike but so different all at once, your stupid boy who was killed by Sin but not, who didn't know anything and didn't care about it. You had loved him safely, shyly like the desert never was, and when he fell in love with Yunie-Yuna, well, that was okay too. You asked him once if blond was his natural hair color and he punched you and called you Brat, but that was okay because you knew more swear words then him and sometimes it was fun to be the baby.

He would punch you and ruffle your hair and make faces and stick out his tongue, and you would tackle and kick and laugh and laugh until your sides hurt from love. He adored you, you know because Yuna said so, but he never looked at you in the right way, and then he got a girlfriend and died so it had never mattered to start with.

The third is your secret. Too old and stern and ugly and mean, dark haired and dark eyed and tall and stern, your secret crush in a way that makes you still feel guilty. Him and He both have only one eye, and the same one at that, but in Djose he hides the spot where his second used to lie and on the pilgrimage you'd try not to stare too much at the scarring on the other.

He never looked at you at all, for good or ill. There were two times that you warranted more attention then a glance or a frown, and neither of them were when you had been broken, and this is why you love him. Two years isn't much but it was a wall on the pilgrimage, a chorus of _well you're only fifteen_s repeated every time you suggested something dangerous, until you felt like snapping at Yuna _maybe but i'll be you're still a virgin _but that would have been mean and pointless. You could have told him anything at all without him caring, and once or twice you almost did. You'd never met someone like that before, not in the desperate love of the Al Bhed or the pity of Yevon, and you wanted him to care so much that you loved him before you knew it, loved him in a terrible way that shamed you when you woke up in the mornings.

But he was dead, too, and even deader then anyone else (_even seymour, deader then seymour, that's an accomplishment, you think and laugh_) to boot. He died with a smile for Yuna and a nod for Kimarhi, and you waited for your glance but it never occurred to him to give it. You weren't just below his affection, you weren't even on the list, and you cried that night and stubbornly loved him more.

The desert again.

There were parties of loud music and drinks and yelling and dancing, screaming until you were numb from joy, Al Bhed parties and Al Bhed love, home again even though Home was gone. You didn't wear your goggles, no one did that night, and you saw him again and it had been a year since you had left and another year since he had, and your first thought was One Eye and then Blond Hair and you had felt like the most selfish, horrible person in the world until he had kissed you.

It was only later that you found his depression out, only later that you learned the names _(noojpainebaralai; you like the last one best and repeat it softly when he's not there to listen baralailailailai)_, and latest of all that you took him to Djose.

The ocean is gray here, the temple dark and cold, and it has ended without you noticing and your arms are around him and he is playing with your braids gently, letting the beads clink against eachother, and you breathe into his neck.

Until we're better again.

You stand shakily, cold and bare and crackling with lightning. It is growing dark but the temple remains lit with the eerie blue-white electricity it creates, leaving you faintly water-colored, watermarked and ruined. You're not better, you won't be better, and neither will he, not yet, not ever. Maybe someday people will live in Djose again and walk over the places you just lay and never know, maybe the temple will rot and the statues fall over and break. Maybe the dead will return and maybe Yuna will stop crying, maybe next time you visit her you won't want to run and hide and cry as result. Maybe, maybe.

He asks you what you are doing in a quiet way, watching you walk over to Braska. You are naked but you bow in your best impression of Wakka before standing straight and hurling your arms out to stop a stampede that is not before you. "Yuna's crying," you tell the statue, "Yuna's crying because they're dead and she loved them," and you are louder now and you are frozen with your arms flung, and his footsteps are behind you and Braska doesn't care. "They're dead and I LOVE THEM," you scream, I scream, she screams, "I LOVE THEM AND THEY'RE DEAD!"

The music swells somewhere and peters off again, uncaring of the temple and you and him and the dead, leaving only you to cry and repeat yourself, waiting for the fayth and the aeons and Yunie to appear and kiss you and tell you it's okay, but you are the guardian and not the summoner and so your voice dies off with one more "dead" and he is hugging you from behind and laughs and asks you if anyone's ever told you that you have _issues_.

"They're dead," you say stubbornly, "And I love them."

"Yeah," he replies, "Me too."

_(until we're better again)_

In the temple you are naked and cold and static and laughing, because somehow it seems like you're in for the long haul and somehow you don't care, because you love him like you loved them, and he looks like them because they look a little like him, and it isn't the desert and it sure as hell isn't pure, it's just sand and electric bubble-gum love.

"And they're dead," you say once more to Braska and to the fayth and the aeons and Yuna, and then you turn around to kiss him because you're crazy for it after all.

* * *


End file.
